Classic Poem

Wrong not sweete Empress of my heart
The merit of true passion
Pretending that he feeles no smart
That sues for no compassion,
Since if my plaints come not t' approve
The conquest of thy beautie,
It comes not from defect of love
But from excess of duty.
For knowing that I sue to serve
A sainte of such perfection
As all desire but none deserve
A place in her affection,
I rather chuse to want reliefe
Than venter the revealing,
Where glory recommends the griefe
Dispayre distrusts the healing.
Thus those desires which aime too high
For any mortal lover
When reason cannot make them die
Discretion doth them cover.
Yet when discretion bids them leave
The plaints which they should utter,
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words though never so witty,
A beggar that is dumbe you knowe
Doth merit double pity.
Then wrong not deare heart of my heart
My true though secret passion,
He merits most that hides his smart
And sues for no compassion.